Career, a Hunger Games story
by Technomad
Summary: The thoughts and viewpoint of a Career Tribute in the Hunger Games, a few games before Katniss' entry. Is a Career Tribute a monster---or someone who, in the end, had no more choice about what lay ahead than Katniss did?


Career

A Hunger Games fanfiction

by Technomad

I can tell what they're thinking.

They hate us.

All of them---the ones from the districts where they don't pick "career" tributes. They hate us, and I understand how they feel. For better or worse, we've got advantages, and I can't blame them for resenting it.

Even so, I can't make myself feel guilty. It wasn't like this was all my own idea. Every year, those children in my District who do really well at sports and games are evaluated at about age ten, and the best---well, we're put under very heavy pressure to "volunteer" for the "special training" that'll supposedly make us optimally prepared to win the Hunger Games for our district.

From the moment you're in the Career Track, you're separate from everybody else. We Careers live in a special building, and don't get to see our parents, or our other friends, very much. Most of our time is taken up with training---running and swimming, for endurance and speed; martial-arts and lessons in the uses of the various weapons that Tributes are allowed, for reasons that should be obvious, and analysis of previous Games---to give us a good idea of just what to expect when we're in the Arena.

When we do get time off, to be with our families and our old classmates, things are very different from the way they were before. Even with training and preparation, everybody knows the brutal arithmetic---twenty-four Tributes go into the Arena, but only one comes out alive.

The ones that do come out---they're our mentors, our teachers, and we know them better than anybody. All too often for it to be coincidence, they come out _changed_, and seldom, if ever, for the better. A man who never used mind-altering substances becomes a drunk, a woman who showed little interest in men turns into a man-devouring harpy, going from lover to lover like someone looking for something she's lost.

Our parents are proud of us, but we can see the sorrow behind their smiles. No parent wants to lose a child, and sending your child to the Capitol creates a very good chance of getting him or her back in a box. Even with the best training, nobody can predict how the Games go, and sheer luck always plays a part in things.

We find that we have less and less in common with our old playmates. We're generally so much better than they are at any sort of sport or game that it's no real contest, and they often start resenting us for the "special attention" we get---the better food, the better quarters, the training. The last time I went on a visit, I wanted to scream at them something like: "If you think this is so damn wonderful, _come take my place_!" Of course, I didn't---it's impossible, and they wouldn't understand what I was talking about.

More and more, we Careers turn to each other---but there's an unspoken limit there, too. Nobody knows for sure who'll have to volunteer. The chance that a friend could be the other tribute from our district makes friendship difficult, at best. Far better to keep the others at a certain distance. Later on, after the Games---then, maybe, there'll be time to look for friends. Or there'll be nothing whatsoever.

It's a lonely life, on the Career Track. The training's interesting, and very challenging. Our trainers push us exactly as far as we can go at any given time---and then just that little bit farther. By the time we're ready to volunteer, we're in the peak of condition. At least those of us who've made it that far are.

Not all of us make it to the point where we're ready to volunteer for the Hunger Games. Injuries are fairly common; our trainers do not spare us, and tell complainers that the real Hunger Games are harder by far than we can imagine. Their motto is "The more you sweat here, the less you'll bleed in the Arena." While I can't argue with that, it does mean that every so often, someone gets hurt, and if the docs can't repair the damage, we've got one fewer Career.

The mental breakdowns are far worse. Hearing someone you've been training beside for years hauled out, screaming and struggling to get free of the straitjacket they've been forced into, is a harrowing experience. We all have nightmares, but the _lucky_ ones---if that's the right word---are the ones who can keep the nightmares under control. The ones that can't---we never see them again. Our trainers don't tell us if _they've_ ever seen ex-Careers who've had breakdowns and had to go home. There are a lot of things our trainers don't tell us. I've noticed that when they think nobody's looking, they stare off into the distance, at something or other that only they can see.

Finally, the Big Day comes. Only the older ones are expected to actually volunteer, of course, but we all have to be there just like everybody else. The whole Career Track is highly unofficial, and I suppose that if Capitol ever had to take official notice of it, they'd come down on our district. Or not. They do like their spectacles, the Capitol types do, and whatever can be said about how "unfair" the Career training system is, it does guarantee those vultures a spectacular show.

This year, I was seventeen, and one of the oldest Careers there. When they drew the name out of the glass ball, I was horrified---the name belonged to a twelve-year-old, one with a bad leg. Before any of the other Careers could, I shouted my own name, offering myself in the other's place.

As I went forward to claim my place, people clapped me on the back, and I could see the twelve-year-old nominee's mother collapsing in tears in my own mother's arms. Mother looked at me, and I could see that she was terrified---but that she was very proud of me. This is why we do this, so that children who wouldn't have a chance in the Games can be spared.

After the usual rigmarole, the other tribute from our District---a Career, like myself---and I were let alone, and we got to watch the drawings for the other districts. When I saw one district where a wispy little twelve-year-old girl was drawn, and nobody, nobody at all, cared enough for her to come forward in her place, I found myself shaking with an indignation I had not allowed myself to feel in years.

At least _I was __trained_! At least _I was __ready_! At least _I __had a chance_! Who would abandon that poor baby to the Arena? A big part of why I'd submitted to the Career Track was to protect children like her! I fantasized getting the people who'd turned their backs on that little girl at a disadvantage in the Arena---there are a _lot_ of ways for people to die there, and most of them are not at all pleasant. Fantasizing about ripping vague, faceless people apart in innovative ways passed a lot of the time on the trip into the Capitol.

The Capitol was even gaudier and more impressive than I had expected it to be. Our trainers were along, of course, and had told us precisely what they would be doing with, and to us, before the Games. I submitted meekly to the makeover they inflicted on me, although I privately thought that the Games themselves would be easier than allowing myself to be seen nationwide in the clothes and makeup I ended up with.

I was careful in my dealings with the Capitol media. I didn't want to come across as arrogant or too sure of myself---I went with "humble" and emphasized that I'd only come forward after that twelve-year-old was drawn. "What else could any decent person _do_?" I asked. I hope the animals who abandoned that little girl felt their ears burning when I made that comment. It seemed to go over pretty well.

I noticed that little girl watching me, when we were in "training" for the actual Games. She hung back, too shy to say anything, but I could see the look in her eyes. It made me feel absolutely dreadful.

I may pity her---I do pity her---but she's a dead girl walking. Oh, she's fast, and agile, and intelligent---in my own District, she'd have been likely to be scooped up for the Career Track---but she's the youngest and smallest of us, and in the Hunger Games, muscle and bulk are very helpful. In a real fight, she's almost certainly toast, and I've noticed some of the other Tributes looking at her the way a cat looks at a bird.

Right now, I think I'm in with a pretty good chance to win this. I've had a chance to evaluate the competition. Some of them, like me, are from districts where real, albeit _sub-rosa_, training for the Hunger Games is practiced. They've formed their own little clique, and since they don't know I'm a Career, they've excluded me. The dripping you don't hear is the sound of my tears at that thought.

The nature of the Hunger Games is to break down alliances and groups and friendships. In the end, only one of us can go home. In my training, I saw examples of tight-knit groups that dominated the Games, until there were no more "outsiders"---only to turn on each other with savage fury when they were the only ones left. Since, by that time, they knew each other well enough to have a pretty good idea of their companions' strengths and weaknesses, the fighting was fierce, if brief. If the other Careers underestimate me---so much the worse for them.

Now, I'm waiting. I'm trained to the limit possible, and as ready for this as anybody can be. I deliberately didn't show _everything_ I could do in the training they offered here---I could have scored higher. I like to keep a few secrets and surprises back for when I need them.

Ah, there it is; Claudius Templesmith's voice: "Ladies and Gentlemen---let the Seventieth Hunger Games begin!"

END


End file.
